


Freebird

by Dogsled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Chases, Cowboy Castiel, Cowboy Dean, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Horsemen, Horses, M/M, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/pseuds/Dogsled
Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester are thieves in a dirty little cowboy AU fic I wrote for DeanOh.





	Freebird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeanOh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanOh/gifts).



“You take it, Sammy. The kids are counting on us. We need this score.”

 

Ducking his head away from the dust thrown up by Sam’s horse’s hooves, Dean turned his black stallion toward the other fork. They were splitting up – had to – because if they didn’t then the posse was going to catch up to both of them. This way if one got caught then the other could break the convict out.

 

Better still if they both got away, though. All they had to do was outlast the posse on their worn down farm and coach horses—easy enough, really. Chevy and Impala were brothers just as Sam and Dean were, and they’d been on the road with them since their father had died. They were tough, dependable and strong, and if need be they could manoeuvre like no other animal could; a whole lot of horsepower, really.

 

Dean’s fork led upward, climbing until it opened onto a sandstone gorge. Beneath him, and down a slippery scree slope, the river crashed between boulders the size of steam trains. It made enough of a noise to be a damn fleet of them storming between the valley walls, and Dean looked back a little more fitfully, wary that the sound of the water could easily drown out that of hoofbeats chasing him along the mountainside.

 

It was one of those times, desperately glancing back, that the speckled mare appeared at the bend, emerging around the vertical face of the canyon wall to climb the path behind him. Imp was flagging, a sluice of white sweat sliding off his rippled neck. The initial gallop for dear life had worn him down, but the son of a bitch that was after him? His horse was cantering like it had been from the beginning, just lolloping along with a steady rhythm, barely a sweat broken.

 

If they broke into a fresh gallop now, then Imp would lose. Dean had to think of something else. Though his horse protested at his urging, but when the mare behind began to chase them faster, he picked up his feet and threw himself toward the top of the hill with fresh vigour. Dean’s gaze chased the border of the path. There had to be something, some foothold, some way to…

 

Aha!

 

Pulling Imp up, and barely with two hundred yards to spare, Dean turned them off the path, choosing the far more perilous route. One sliding jump took them off the edge of the path, pebbles skittering underfoot, and then they were moving down at a steady pace, first skidding down six foot of scree, then clambering between tree roots and boulders, descending recklessly down the mountainside.

 

This was what they practiced, how they kept their edge against the forces of lawful good. This and target practice. Descending the near vertical edge of the gorge was more complicated than any dance. Imp didn’t misstep when their lives depended on it.

 

Dean laughed, spinning his head to look up at the man pursuing them, standing on the ledge just above him. But the man on the speckled mare above them wasn’t some farmer. His gold sheriff’s badge glinted in the sun, and his blue eyes seemed to catch all the storm of the water below them. He was beautiful, even furious, even with his lips stretched into a fine, angry line. Too bad he was a lawman.

 

Too bad he was a cocky son of a bitch, too, because the bastard turned his mare’s nose off the trail and jumped down to the ledge beneath the path, clearly intent on following him no matter what.

 

Cursing, Dean turned away, looking between Imp’s ears and urging him on faster. Nobody had ever fucking _followed_ them before. They’d tried and failed to shoot him. They’d even hit him one time, hit Imp too, but they’d always chickened out, lacking any confidence in their mounts. But this guy? Either had had balls of steel, or he’d worked this mare on mountainsides too. Maybe both, considering Dean wouldn’t be down here if he could help it.

 

When it all went wrong it really went wrong.

 

Imp lost his footing. The scree pulled out from underneath him and he went down on his hocks, seated as they slid downward. Imp sprang away in panic for flat ground, and Dean lost his balance, knocked clean out of his saddle.

 

On the ground, Dean covered his head as more pebbles came flying down the slope toward him, knocked loose by the mare’s hooves as she descended after them. A second later and boots were crashing into the ground beside his head. A gun cocked; a Smith and Wesson by the sound of it, and he swallowed hard, tilting his face upward slowly.

 

“Hands where I can see them.”

 

With a pistol aimed at his head, Dean wasn’t playing any games. He put his hands out where they could be seen, away from his body, and away from any place where he might be concealing a weapon. It meant he had to lower his head a little as well.

 

“Now roll over.”

 

He rolled over, blinking at the sun in his eyes. The sheriff loomed over him, gun low but at a safe distance, like he knew that Dean would grab it if he came any closer. Dean couldn’t look the guy in the eyes like he wanted to either, though. Not from this angle. He sure had a nice low register, though.

 

“The legendary Dean Winchester,” the sheriff purred. “I see the stories are true.”

 

“Is that right? They tell stories about me?”

 

The sheriff gave a derisive snort. “ _All_ the stories seem to be true. Can you sit up?”

 

“I only fell off my horse.”

 

Dean sat up slowly, while the other man circled around him, and once the sun was out of his eyes Dean could look at him again. His skin was sunkissed, his eyes like the sky shining through polished crystal. But it was his lips, pink and slightly parted and curled into a filthy smirk, which truly caught Dean’s attention.

 

“Hello handsome.”

 

“Are you flirting with me?”

 

“So what if I am?”

 

“I’m holding you at gun point.”

 

Dean grinned. “Maybe I’m into that kind of thing?”

 

The sheriff shifted his feet uncomfortably, and Dean tipped up his chin, smug.

 

“What’s your name?” Dean asked.

 

“Novak.”

 

“Sheriff Novak? Come on, Novak isn’t your first name. What’s your first name?”

 

Sheriff Novak was silent.

 

“I’m gonna need a kiss,” Dean declared, after a moment’s thought.

 

“I beg your pardon? I believe I’m the one holding the gun.”

 

“You want to take me alive, right? That’s what it says on Michael Shurley’s wanted poster. _Nothing_ if I’m dead. I can be really heavy if I’m uncooperative, you know…”

 

“So you want me to kiss you, and then you’ll…what? Take my gun? Escape?”

 

“You can tie me up first,” Dean offered, quirking his eyebrow. “I’ll even lie on my front, make it real easy for you.”

 

Dean knew that, at the very least, the sheriff would take him up on that particular offer. It would be difficult to tie him up at gunpoint if he wasn’t at least making it a little bit easier. So when he didn’t argue, Dean lay down on his front, crossed his wrists behind him, and waited for the first whisper of rope across his skin.

 

What came instead was the sheriff’s weight across the back of his thighs, and rough hands curling around his wrists, twisting his arms back up painfully.

 

“Agh… _fuck_.”

 

And there was the rope.

 

“Castiel.”

 

“What?”

 

“My name. It’s _Castiel_.”

 

“That’s a stupid name.”

 

Castiel twisted his arm a little harder.

 

“Argh. Son of a bitch.”

 

“Yeah, you are.”

 

Dean scowled into the dirt, and a moment later Castiel was off him, rough hands turning him back over, fingers digging into his shoulders and shoving down, pinioning him hard enough that it hurt. But that was fine. Dean manoeuvred his switchblade down from his sleeve, digging it once into his own flesh before managing to twist it around to dig into the rope instead.

 

Castiel hadn’t stood up, though. He crashed back down against him, pinning him, and loomed over him keenly, blocking out the sun all over again.

 

“Mr Winchester…”

 

“You’re straddling me, I think you can call me Dean.”

 

“You wanted a kiss, Dean. But I demand cooperation once we’re done.”

 

“Whatever you want,” he growled, amenably.

 

When the sheriff kissed him, Dean was momentarily taken back by the ferocity of it, rough lips, lightly bristled, crashing against his own. For a moment Dean thought it was the churn of the rapids pounding in his ears, but perhaps it was his heart beating faster, blood roaring through his veins, because the kiss was incredible. It blew his mind, really, to be kissed like this when he’d _never_ been kissed this way before.

 

Briefly he forgot to cut through the rope, but then his hands were free, grappling with Castiel’s wrists as he knocked the other man onto his back on the loose pebbles.

 

He didn’t break the kiss, but the bastard lashed through his bottom lip with his teeth when he realized he’d been overwhelmed, fighting back without truly making the effort to fight Dean off, either. If he’d wanted him off then more biting would easily have done the trick.

 

Instead, Dean took his time, and Castiel offered his tongue, sucking on the wound he’d made while Dean easily deepened the kiss. He pulled back before the sheriff could change his mind.

 

“Sorry Cas,” he offered, pointing the man’s gun at him as he backed off, and scooping his Stetson up from the ground where it had fallen. “I hate to kiss and run, but you know how it is. Bird’s gotta fly free.”

 

Castiel glared.

 

Imp was waiting beside the water. When Dean approached the stallion seemed surprisingly relaxed. Maybe it was just the gallop. Or maybe Castiel’s white mare had gotten more than she’d bargained for too? Oh well.

 

With one last wink at the sheriff, Dean tossed the man’s Smith and Wesson as far as it could go down the shoreline, then kicked his spurs into his horse’s sides, heading off along the ravine. He’d have to remember to take a trip back to the little town of Heaven one day soon. God knew it’d lived up to its name.


End file.
